The Force of Selfishness
by Antigone1Evenstar
Summary: Harry has been accused, and Magic comes to his defense. AU


DISCLAIMER: If I REALLY owned Harry Potter and etc., I'd be able to afford more books. So no, he's not mine.

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Set in 5th year, Harry has mastered Occlumency and instead takes extra DADA lessons from our beloved Potions Master. Umbridge is _sadly_ (cough*not*cough) not on the staff or anywhere near Hogwarts. Unfortunately for our hero, some of the teachers and his friends have decided that his flying makes him vulnerable to attacks from full-fledged and wannabe Death Eaters. They have joined together to break it to him, assuming he will rage and then let them take his broom. They were wrong, and he is currently putting up quite the fight. Everyone is putting in their two cents, until Hermione says something our green-eyed teen takes umbrage to. (Not a pun!)

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"Stop being so selfish!"

The words cut through the sounds in the room and left a gaping hole, silence now reining in place of chaos. Everyone froze in place, though some were breathing hard. One Harry Potter stood stock still, looking as though he had been slapped.

"Selfish?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Harry, I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did," came the firm reply. "Yes, you did."

And as Harry spoke, a chilling darkness came over the room, and suddenly everyone seemed to be plunged into an icy cold, stone room. Hermione had to keep her gaze forcefully away from Harry's eyes, having always secretly wondered if they would glow in the dark. A faint whisper of a spell, and suddenly a faint glow coming from everywhere and nowhere lit up the room, which was actually a tunnel, in a faint light. Long shadows were cast, forming grotesque mockeries of the people standing around the Boy-Who-Lived.

Hermione looked carefully, and found that the majority of the light seemed to be centered around Harry, though he himself was not glowing. He stood quietly, might have been a waxen figure for all one could tell, until he was asked a question.

"Where is this place? What did you do?"

A smile, dark and humorless grew on Harry's face. A repetition of the questions led to a short eerie chuckle.

"I? I did nothing. This, I believe, is an old magic rite. It happened in the early days of the magic world, before there was a Ministry of Magic or court systems. Cases would be attended by the local chieftain or king. In certain cases however, when the accused was facing charges of a matter more personal than legal, Magic would intervene and let the truth be known. Magic has intervened here. I did not call it, it came when I was accused."

He started moving, and the group parted. As he started walking down the tunnel, he suddenly stopped and partially turned.

"Are you coming? From what I've read, you can't get out until you've completed whatever task or seen whatever it is Magic has planned."

This set the whole group-from snarky professors to reckless Gryffindors and manipulative old coots- to following the teen down the tunnel. As they walked, memories played on the walls, following them.

First came a memory of Harry promising to himself that he would be able to protect his friends while watching Ginny sleep in the hospital wing after the Chamber ordeal. Following after were flashes of Harry studying late into the night, and rising early the next day to study more before the others woke, of working at his DADA in abandoned classrooms and the Room of Requirement until he was past exhausted, of juggling friends with his intense study.

Making sure Hermione scored higher in everything except DADA, and offering to help there, playing chess with Ron, secretly tutoring Neville, and discussing nonsensical creatures with Luna. Listening as Ginny cried on his shoulder after a bad day or heartbreak, as he protected and comforted students from every house and every year. Finally there came a few brief clips of Harry, alone, flying without a care in the world.

After this the walls darkened and showed no more.

* * *

"We quite understand you believe yourself perfect, Mr. Potter. Now if we have finished examining your nomination for sainthood, could you please tell 'magic' to let us out?" was the caustic inquiry heard shortly after.

Harry shook his head, not turning to look.

"I'm afraid I cannot, sir. Magic decides when it is over. But I do think we're coming close to the end."

Hermione walked faster, catching up with her friend. Surreptitiously watching his face, she came to the realization that he was embarrassed and trying to cover it with nonchalance. They walked together silently for a few moments before he broke the silence.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to find out this way, Hermione. It's just… it's not that I'm patronizing you or anything, but it's so much more important to you than it is to me, you know, about grades and all that."

The words were spoken quietly, but she heard them clearly. Before she could reply, a memory flashed on the wall beside them, of Hermione looking on with jealousy and indignation at Harry's grades. With the stimulus, she recalled the incident back in their first year, with a week of giving Harry a cold shoulder following, and the words of denial died and another reply was formulated. Ron was not the only person who had an envy-green mask.

"I accept. And the only reason I'm insulted is that you thought you had to hide this from us. I'd love the challenge-at least, now that I'm older and hopefully more mature, that is. I suppose I just don't quite understand, why?"

In reply, Harry shrugged and gestured ahead in the tunnel.

"I think you will get your answer up ahead."

Sure enough, they came to a room, octagon in shape. As they stood by the doorway, a door closed behind them and they were locked in the room. A spotlight shone on a wall to their right, and they watched in awed silence as the two revealed figures came to life.

Hunched up against the wall was a young boy, no more than eleven, clinging desperately to a couple broken toys. He looked small, scared, lost, and was plainly terrified by the person standing in front of him. The other figure, a tall, cold warrior, his face scarred, started talking to the child.

"This is your choice, boy," he said in a surprisingly even tone. There was no comfort, and yet no malice in it either.

"You can either sit there alone and cling to these broken _toys,_ or you can get up and make friends. Perhaps, if you give enough, you can earn their love." There was still no anger or sign of a sneer, only a slight emphasis on certain words. The voice wasn't cold, but it was empty. Hermione couldn't tell if it was better or worse.

"You will pay a high price. But it is your duty. And you can either fail the only thing you're meant for, the one thing you have a chance to be good at, or you can do something."

With that, the man held out his hand. A cry was torn out of Hermione, she wanted to warn the child, tell him not to accept, that the evil man was wrong- but the child could not hear her. The man's gaze turned to her for a second, and she was chilled at the dark green eyes-not glaring, just looking- straight at her. For a moment she thought he looked familiar-

But no, there was no lightning bolt scar on his forehead. The man turned his attention back to the child, and under the penetrating gaze, a shaky hand reached up and took the offered palm. Pulled to his feet, the difference in height seemed laughable, but not a soul even smiled. The child moved as if to leave the toys, but the warrior held him back.

"No, it is not enough to leave them. I told you there was a price, and to keep your friends safe means not just leaving them behind, but destroying them. Your task means you must realize they can never be yours. They must be destroyed- well, sacrificed if you prefer."

A reluctant nod of the head showed the boy had understood, though his gaze was downwards. Black hair was over his eyes, and he seemed to be trembling- with cold or fright, who could tell? Seeing this, for a moment the hard look softened, and he knelt down and hugged the child.

"I know it's hard," he said softly. "But this is what we have been set to do."

A moment later he was standing, strong, tall, and untouchable again. They gathered the pitiful pile of broken playthings and walked to the center of the room, where a fire suddenly burst into existence. With a nod of affirmation, the boy threw a bit of broken crayon into the fire, which upon contact burst into a dark blue flame and vanished. They continued on until the toys were all gone, though Hermione noticed that the longer it took the boy to throw it in, the more attached he seemed, the darker the flame was. Finally, a tattered blanket Dumbledore seemed to recognize- at least from his reaction- was thrown in, with a black flame the only trace left behind.

With that the fire vanished, and the only trace left behind was a smoking piece of wood about the width and length of a wand. The man picked it up.

"You will be glad to know," he said sarcastically, "that they were sacrificed for the greater good. And that this pain is for the greater good."

The child stood stock still, and looked up for the first time, and Hermione caught a glimpse of green eyes- a bright, new-spring green that both blended and clashed with the warriors almost black shade. They both looked terribly like each other and Harry, yet the two figures had no lightning bolt scars.

"A child picked by a prophecy- a self fulfilling prophecy. Marked because a coward felt threatened, chosen because an old man needed a savior, separated from all others by one solitary imperfection."

The green-eyed man gently grasped the chin of the green-eyed child, and the stick in his right hand was shifted. Something lurched inside Hermione as she recognized the references and screamed out "NO!" but was solidly ignored and held back by Harry from crashing into an invisible barrier between actors and audience. The still smoking stick was pressed to the child's forehead and a whimper of pain. It was held there for infinity it seemed, the small fingers grasping the larger left hand still holding his face in a twisted mockery of a loving gesture.

Ron was pressed against the barrier, as if he could push the wall down. None of those assembled around Harry dared look at his face, but white-knuckled fists were visible as his arms folded against his chest. After only (only!) a minute or two it was over, and as the cruel hand dropped a new, bright red and bleeding scar seemed to shine from the boys head.

It was a hard choice whether the scar, or the eyes, which were now a darker emerald green and eerily blank was more disturbing. A faint smell of burnt flesh filled the air and Hermione felt vaguely ill. The man conjured a set of armor and a sword, addressing the injured 'Harry' as a new recruit. Turning his head, a bleeding scar matching the young one's blazed from the warriors head as well.

"Prepare to fight, boy." The child looked unsure, and the man started helping him put the armor on. It was several sizes too large, but the boy made no complaint. Hermione wondered if the child was capable of speech. Fully suited, 'Harry' looked like a child playing imagination games, except for the look on his face, which was dead serious and terrified.

As the soldier was pushing him towards a door that appeared out of nowhere, the younger 'Harry' put up his first bit of resistance, apparently refusing to go through. The taller man looked at him sadly. "You chose this freely. Do not fight it now. Go. Earn your right to live!"

Still looking unconvinced, the man grasped the boys hand firmly, painfully tight, and said, "Earn your right for love."

That seemed to set the child off, and oblivious to the cries of the watchers he dashed through the door which swung shut firmly behind him, leaving the scarred man alone.

"You shouldn't do that, you know. Prophecies are 'what could be', not 'what will be'," said the real Harry to the older, hardened replica. To Hermione's surprise, he answered.

"I know. But we were chosen because we are willing to fight. Because we truly are desperate enough. Because whether it is impossible or not we will do our best. Unlike everyone else, who is content to wait for help."

The older 'Harry' walked up until he was just on the other side of the barrier. His features did not get any more comforting up close, instead revealing just how scarred he was. The scar that ruled his life seemed paradoxically trivial in comparison. His battle robes were well worn, and glints of silver peeked out, hinting at weapons hidden underneath.

"We can find a middle ground."

The Man-Who-Lived snorted his disbelief of the sentiment.

"Perhaps. But not likely for us, at any rate."

"I'm doing a pretty good job, at least so far," Harry replied calmly.

"For how much longer?"

"It's one thing. I will not give it up. Not for you or for anybody else!" This was said with some heat.

"They are already asking for it, though. You'll learn to live without it, just like you've learned to live without almost everything else. Tell me," he mocked, "tell me if your friends are worth it? How far are you willing to go to protect them? Are you willing to lose them to keep them safe?"

The real Harry's eyes flashed, and he pounded his fists helplessly against the barrier.

"How dare you! I've risked my life-"

"Yes, you are more than willing to _die_ for your precious friends if need be. The question is, are you willing to live alone and suffering for them?"

Before Harry could reply, the door swung open and an exhausted green-eyed child fell through. The formerly shining silver armor was dented, caked with mud and stained with blood. The older, cruel 'Harry' moved swiftly and removed the armor from the silently grieving child, who leaned against the door. A rough hand touched the sweat and blood soaked head, and young 'Harry' clung to it in raw desperation for comfort.

"Are your friends worth it?" queried the elder, sitting next to the younger version of himself. A nod and slight 'mmhmm' of confirmation was his answer.

"Are you willing to do this again? And again? Until everything that was you is hacked away or scarred over?"

"Stop!" real Harry cried. "You can't give up everything or you fight for nothing!"

The young wizard-warrior looked up in surprise as the real Harry passed through the barrier and walked up to the two doppelgangers of past and possible future.

"He can only help you so much," said Harry, pointing to his elder self. "Don't give up everything. Not quite."

Puzzled eyes looked at him.

"How do I know what everything is?" came the soft inquiry.

"You know. That's your job. Always know what you fight for. If you give that up, you lose."

The black haired head nodded. He stood up, and assisted by the two other Harrys' put the now clean armor back on and walked back through the door. As the door closed yet again, the dark corners of the room grew and swirled around everyone.

They found themselves standing once again in Hogwarts, though some looked emotionally worse for the wear. Professor Snape was silent and contemplative, and Hermione was weepy. The Headmaster was in shock, sitting behind his desk and Ron looked as though a breeze could tilt him head over heels.

"It's not fair, mate," he managed at last, breaking the silence. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Whoever said life was fair desperately needs to be dragged out in the street and shot," he replied rather lightly, considering the conversation. He turned to address his professors.

"That is why, sirs, I respectfully cannot agree with your, 'request', to give up flying. I can quite the quidditch team, sure, no problem. But to completely ban flying- that's mine. I'll take all the precautions you'd like with glamors, notice-me-not charms, whatever. But it is MINE and I take a stand here."

He turned and strode to the door, unhindered. "But I thank you for your concern. Perhaps it IS selfish, to risk myself that way. I simply cannot give up everything of mine. Good day."

"Wait!" Hermione cried. "Harry! I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ever said you were selfish." A flash of a grin was sent her way.

"No problem. I guess I can't ALWAYS be dumped on by the universe, right?" And with that Harry walked out the office door carrying his Firebolt, his destination obvious.

In the now silent office, one statement was heard. "Harry is fighting for us, for everybody. Who's fighting for Harry?"

And yet again, silence reigned supreme.

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Heavy on the angst factor, aye? But there she is. This was both hard and fun to write. I was talking with someone and after we parted ways my mind started working and…here we are! From a younger Harry and older Harry, fighting in a tunnel to this fic.


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